


Nice Forearms

by Amuly



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, Flirting, Humor, Licking, M/M, Pain, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:05:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames has a gigantic cock. Arthur enjoys it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice Forearms

  


Arthur winced as he lowered himself onto Eames cock. Eames' big hands were on his hips, fingers splayed across skin and bones as he held him in place and stopped Arthur from moving down too quickly. Arthur growled in frustration, clenching his thighs as he tried to push himself down faster. It stung, it _burned_ , but he'd admit to not finishing the _Principia Mathematica_ before he admitted that Eames' cock was a lot to take. Even if it was.

“Let go, Eames,” he growled. “Come on.”

Eames' expression – which had previously been gazing adoringly up at Arthur with just a tinge of concern – morphed into a big grin. “Patience, love.” He shifted his hips up a fraction faster than he had been, and Arthur's entire body clenched around him. _Fuck_. Arthur threw his head back, neck straining as his thighs trembled and body spasmed tight. And Eames wasn't even fully seated, yet.

Eames raised an eyebrow up at Arthur in an obvious _see?_ expression. Arthur gritted his teeth and glared down at him. “It's been three months,” he growled out. “Anybody would be tight.” The _it's not you, or your monstrously huge dick_ hung unsaid but entirely audible between them.

Arthur lowered himself down an inch further to prove his point, suppressing a wince as he tried to force himself to relax. Fuck. Still hurt. Still felt like Eames was splitting him wide, stretching his muscles beyond a delicious comfort and into a painful burn. But that _was_ delicious. That burn was what Arthur had ached for during the last three months separate from each other.

“But you fucked yourself open when we were apart, didn't you?”

Arthur gasped, relaxing just enough to slip down even further onto Eames. Still not in. Arthur's thighs trembled, sweat starting to trickle in tiny little beads down his neck, pooling in his collarbone and then continuing down his chest.

Eames continued, fingers digging bruises into Arthur's hips. “I know you did. You couldn't have gone three months without getting your greedy hole fucked open by _something_.” Eames' face pulled into a sharp frown as he pushed his hips up, splitting Arthur open just that bit more. “But it wasn't the same, was it? Wasn't enough?”

“Fuck you.” Arthur tried to put vehemence behind his words, he really did. But “Fuck you” ended up sounding more like “Fuck me, _please”_ , and Arthur's hands scrambled at Eames' chest for purchase in a desperate, flailing attempt to keep himself from shoving down those last few inches too quickly. Anal tearing was not what he had in mind for his and Eames' long-overdue reunion fuck.  
  


Eames' thumbs grazed over Arthur's hipbones, rubbing soothing (loving?) circles as his eyes darted across Arthur's face, gauging his level of discomfort. Apparently Arthur's gritted teeth and watering eyes _weren't_ indicators of his discomfort, because the next thing Arthur knew Eames' strong hands were dragging him down, pulling his hips closer to his own. Arthur's fingernails dug into Eames' chest, his mouth open in a silent scream as Eames' cock _dragged_ inside of him – lube or no lube, prep or no prep, Eames' cock _always_ dragged inside of Arthur, like it wanted to attach itself to every millimeter of his inner walls and pull the sensitive inner tissue along with it on its journey further inside Arthur's body.

Arthur's eyes watered, sweat dripped down his neck and chest, lube dripped out of his ass and pooled in Eames' pubic hair. And somehow, through all the pain and bodily fluids, Arthur's cock was leaking, too. Arthur grunted (not _whined_ , no matter what Eames might call it afterwards) and buried his face in Eames' neck, hands squeezing pleadingly around Eames' trapeziums.

Eames' hands came up to his back, soothing. “I'm in,” he whispered. “I've got you. I'm all the way in.” Before Arthur could strike out with some angry, witty rejoinder, one of Eames' hands found its way down to Arthur's _burningstretchedoutfuckedoutalready_ hole. Thick, meaty fingers rubbed the rim, so tight, _too_ tight, where it was stretched around Eames' cock. Any response Arthur might have had died on his lips as he whined (couldn't even pretend it was a grunt that time), and pressed back toward Eames' fingers. It hurt to feel Eames' fingers touch the overextended skin, but still a shiver ran through Arthur's body and settled in his leaking cock.

When Eames thrust his hips gently up, Arthur cried out and rubbed his face viciously against Eames' neck.

“Shh.” Eames held Arthur in place tight with one hand on his back while the other stayed between their hips, stroking lightly over Arthur's straining hole. “Going nice and slow.” Eames' hips tilted up again. There wasn't anywhere else for him to _go_ , no further inside Arthur he could slip, but the pressure increased. It was Arthur's sweat that dampened Eames' neck. Not tears from the strain. Eames rolled his hips again. Arthur held on for the ride.

It was always like this, when they first found each other again. Whether they were separated for a job, or because they broke up for the hundredth time, or because one of them was lying injured in a hospital bed for a month, their first time back together always hurt. Their first time together at all – over a decade ago, when Arthur had been a too-serious, obviously green military kid and Eames had been some asshole Brit from HM's Army – Arthur had stumbled to the shower afterward and laid down under the spray for an hour before Eames sought him out, scooped him up, and brought him back to his bunk. It had hurt that much. And Arthur liked to think he was pretty good with pain.

But now... Arthur rocked down, meeting one of Eames' gentle upward hip-rolls. Arthur could feel the grin splitting Eames' face from where it was pressed into his hair. “There you go, love.” His accent was thick, his voice deep as he whispered sweet reassurances in Arthur's ear. Arthur shoved hard against Eames' shoulder and pushed himself upright, glaring down at Eames for the sweetness, for treating him like he needed to be coached through it.

He loved it when Eames treated him like that. And Eames knew it.

“Stop talking and fuck me, Eames,” Arthur growled, rolling his hips to meet Eames' more fiercely. Arthur hissed, but kept his hips going. It was getting better. He could feel his inner walls sliding more around Eames, now, instead of pulling. As arousal boiled up in his stomach, his body began to relax and open itself for Eames. As big as Eames was, as _impossible_ as it seemed that Eames' enormous cock belonged anywhere but a hollowed out watermelon, Arthur knew Eames belonged in him. Filling him until he _burned_ with the stretch – filling him until the stretch _didn't_ burn anymore, until it was just Eames, and fullness, and sweet pleasure being fucked up inside of him from the back and then back out his front.

Eames' crooked teeth and crooked grin flashed up at Arthur just before his reply. “Stop coddling your arse and starting fucking _me_ , you big girl's blouse.”

Arthur growled and repositioned himself, suppressing the urge to wince as Eames' cock moved inside of him, the head of it feeling like it'd puncture Arthur's fucking large intestine if it pressed any further in. He managed to settle with his hands pressed wide just above Eames' hips, thumbs reaching toward each other under Eames' navel and fingers wrapped around his waist. Not that Arthur's fingers, even as long as they were, could ever hope to come close to wrapping around the broad expanse of Eames' body.

Slowly Arthur began to move, rocking himself on the wide expanse of Eames' hips and the – absurdly, ridiculously – thick girth of Eames' long cock. He pointedly ignored the way Eames was grinning up at him with every undulation, because Arthur _knew_ Eames was just gobbling up every change in his facial expression, every wince and gasp and lip caught between teeth as his body still fought to relax. “Come on,” Eames pushed his hips up sharper, but this time Arthur didn't wince and didn't stop. This time he moved down to meet Eames' thrust, tearing a gasp of surprised pleasure from the other man.

Arthur glared down at Eames. “I thought you wanted me to actually start fucking myself on you. Too soon?” Eames shook his head breathlessly as Arthur leaned forward, pressing more of his body weight to his hands as he started to lift himself in small, but increasing, increments. Arthur bared his teeth as he wiggled his ass down on Eames' cock. Better. Getting there. “Speechless?” he gritted out. “Good. Now I can focus on getting off instead of your constant stream of distracting nonsense.”

Eames laughed at that, his hands tightening their grip on Arthur's waist. He lifted Arthur – _easily_ , Arthur thought a little peevishly – a few inches before pulling him back down and pushing his hips up. His cock moved inside Arthur, sliding over the heated, inner walls of his body, pressing so thick within him it felt like if Arthur just laid a hand on his own stomach he would _feel_ Eames inside of him. Arthur's head fell back, throat undulating as he swallowed thickly. Oh. _Oh._ Arthur tensed his thighs and lifted himself up, pushing back down on Eames with more force than he had yet. Both men lost their breaths at the movement.

“Oh, you're ready, aren't you?” Eames murmured. His left hand returned to its place behind Arthur, stroking at his stretched-tight hole. Except now it didn't hurt. Now the extra stimulation and contact felt blindingly good. “Feel you:” Eames continued, “opened wide for me. Stretched out like some sort of used-up rentboy.” A low growl bubbled up in Eames' throat as he spoke. Arthur ignored him: he was too busy on focusing on the exact part of his body Eames' cockhead was touching now. Arthur fucked himself slowly on Eames' dick. Fucking _yes_. Eames could call him whatever he wanted so long as he just stayed erect: a large, hot, wet tool Arthur could use to pleasure himself all night.

Of course, Eames was still talking. Of course. “Can take all of me, can't you, Arthur? So beautifully, too. Just take it, and want more, want it harder...”

“Put up or shut up,” Arthur growled. His eyes flashed as he stared down at Eames. The smug bastard just stared up with adoration painting his features. Asshole. “Either fuck me, or shut up and let me do it myself,” Arthur clarified.

In the next moment Eames was surging up, kissing the life out of Arthur as he wrapped him up tight in his big arms. Arthur bit at Eames' lips. Not that he was vindictive about how much bigger Eames was than him – in every way (Arthur might have been sizeably endowed himself, but _no one_ compared to Eames. The closest analogue Arthur could ever come up with was a centaur. And that was just ridiculous). “Darling,” Eames breathed against his teeth.

Then Eames was rolling them, pining Arthur beneath him with his cock still buried firmly inside. Arthur let himself be manhandled, but that was only because the way Eames' dick was moving inside of him made it feel like his prostate was being milked. Automatically Arthur reached his arms up above his head, bracing his palms flat against the headboard. Eames' toothy smile almost made the fucking Arthur knew he was about to receive not worth it. Anything to keep Eames' ego in check. Arthur wriggled his ass down against Eames and shut his eyes. Fuck it. Eames could have as big an ego as he wanted – just so long as he used the big dick that came along with it to fuck Arthur into the mattress.

When Eames started thrusting in – smooth, hard strokes, that moved Arthur's entire body up toward the headboard – Arthur wanted to cry out. Wanted to, but didn't: instead gritting his teeth and curling his nails into the headboard. It still hurt, Eames' dick fucking into him. But it also felt un-fucking-believable, so much so that within a few rhythmic moments Arthur found himself lost in sensation, synapses filled to the brim trying to process all the places Eames was touching him inside.

He didn't even realize his mouth had fallen open and he had started crying out until one of Eames' thick-fingered hands came up to trace the outline of his lips, one finger sliding in briefly to tease at his tongue and gums before slipping back out. “Such beautiful noises you make for my nob. If it were detachable I might be jealous, thinking you'd swan off with it one day and leave me out in the cold.”

“Shut _up_ , Eames,” Arthur groaned, even as he rolled his hips down to meet a particularly harsh thrust courtesy Eames. “Just... j-j-” A guttural, strangled groan swallowed up the rest of Arthur's words as Eames continued to fuck his hole wide open. Arthur's head fell to the side, finding himself completely lacking the mental capacity to hold it straight anymore. His lips – wet by saliva from both Eames' fingers and just from undignified, completely unavoidable _drooling_ – caught on the mattress and tugged as his body bobbed up and down with Eames' thrusts. Arthur tried one last time to keep his legs wrapped tight around Eames' waist, but it was a lost cause. He went limp in Eames' grip as he let himself be fucked.

Eames groaned, voice sounding wrecked and awestruck all at once. He shifted for a moment, repositioning himself so he could lift Arthur's legs up and hold him open himself. Arthur let himself be spread wide, legs pushed up and out, all for Eames to better fuck him. And fuck him Eames did – in earnest, now, thrusts manic and ferocious in their speed and force. Arthur's body trembled, chest heaving as he let Eames fuck him, let Eames pound away deep inside of him, stretching him and filling him until Arthur was sure he wasn't in control of any bit of himself anymore. Eames was in control, Eames was fucking him with his big cock and not letting Arthur have any reprieve from its girth or length.

When Arthur came it was almost a passive act. His orgasm forced its way out of him, come spurting on his cock and stomach as Arthur lay there and let it go where it would. Still Eames fucked into him, rattling the headboard, shaking Arthur to his bones, cock leaving not a space inside him untouched.

When Arthur was filled like this, with Eames, he could never feel it when he came. With other lovers he could: feel the warm wetness, their come filling the condom or – once or twice when he was young and stupid – his passage. But with Eames everything was already so warm, so wet, so full, that he couldn't separate the feel of ejaculate from the feel of Eames' cock and the amount of lube necessary to fit it in. But he could always tell by the way Eames both went limp around him, and held him tighter and closer than he had throughout the rest of their fucking. Eames was a post-coital cuddler.

Arthur was not. As Eames sunk down onto him, body limp even as his arms held Arthur tight, Arthur attempted to shove him off and out. When Eames did, with only the smallest of whines to make his protest known, Arthur hissed. Fuck. Fucking fuck. It always hurt, coming out. It felt like everything had been rubbed raw and red and well, well past stretched. Arthur resisted the urge to rub his poor, loose asshole in comfort.

Instead he shoved Eames to the side and – gingerly, so, so gingerly – hauled himself out of the bed. In the bathroom he shut the door behind him, then started the shower. To his surprise – though, perhaps not really, considering how well Arthur knew Eames and his pathetic proclivity for sentiment – the door opened behind him before the water was fully warm.

One big arm wrapped tight around him, the other drifting down to ghost over his entrance – not quite touching, though. “Don't be foolish, love. Let me draw you a bath.”

Arthur wasn't sure why, but for once he was feeling too fucked-out, too loose and gooey and well, well fucked to say no. So he nodded his head, leaning just a bit into Eames. “Fine,” he grumbled. “But you don't get to fuck me again in it.”

“Oh darling,” Eames murmured, “I wouldn't dream of it. Mustn't damage your poor arsehole beyond repair. I plan on needing to use it for many years yet to come.”

For some reason, Arthur found the corners of his mouth quirking at the sentiment Eames had shallowly buried beneath his pithy response. But he didn't turn around to face Eames until that little involuntary reflex was under control. After all, Eames' ego (cock) was big enough: it didn't need any more stroking.

Epilogue:

Arthur shifted a little in his chair as he watched Eames go up to the coffee shop counter to order their drinks. Immediately Ariadne's expression turned into “girl talk” mode, and she leaned across the table to Arthur. “So.”

Arthur looked at her stoically. “Yes?”

Araidne's smirk grew. “You got laid.”

Arthur decided not to dignify that response.

“Okay, I gotta ask.” Ariadne held out her hands, about eight inches apart. “Right? I mean, every time you guys hook up after a job you're always... well.” Ariadne's grin was _much_ too filthy for a girl her age. “Come on.”

Casually Arthur glanced over to where Eames was standing against the counter, facing them and leaning on his forearms. “Eames has nice forearms, doesn't he?” Arthur asked.

Ariadne's brow furrowed. “What doe-” She stopped. In comically quick succession she stared at Eames' forearms, then at Arthur, then back at Eames, then at Arthur again. “ _No_!”

Arthur shrugged, suppressing a wince as he leaned back in his chair. “You asked.”

He was saved any further questioning from Ariadne by Eames heading back over to them, drinks and croissants in hand. Though Arthur was fairly sure he heard Ariadne wonder into her coffee, “But how does it _fit_?”

The comment apparently didn't go unnoticed by Eames, who choked on his croissant. Arthur gave him a few sharp slaps on the back, smirking at Ariadne the whole time.  
  


  



End file.
